November 8, 2014

rue\ˈrü\
noun
: regret, sorrow <with rue my heart is laden — A. E. Housman>
Origin: Middle English rewe, from Old English hrēow; akin to Old High German hriuwa sorrow. First use: before 12th century

(Merriam-Webster Dictionary)

My father was the king of rue. Nobody could shoot a rueful gaze like Jack. He would put his hand on the back of his neck, fix his eyes on you, and ... phew. Just phew. And his voice was full of rue at almost all times. It contained a constantly vaguely resigned sigh that said, kid, you don't know. Trust me on this, you just don't know.

It's about a quarter to five in the morning. I slept like crap, mostly because I took that damn C- PAP device off at 12:30, then tried side-sleeping to avoid snoring and apnea wakings, but that was not a good choice. In fact, it is a choice I rue. But as my choices go, it has plenty of company. But that is a thing at 4:47 in the morning among those who have not had good sleep.

I remember Jack saying, "I know what's happening to me. I'm coming apart a piece at a time" after one big medical crisis or another (heart, diabetes were the two major bedevilments). I wonder if he wondered exactly when he slipped into the hands of medicine for the rest of his days. Because if he did, I can relate.

But what the hell. (Jack was a world-class swearer by the way. It is from him I inherited my way with a curse except for the dropping of the F-bomb which simply was not done between father and son in his day. His favorite parlay was goddamn son-of-a-bitching bastard, which I will admit has a certain power, though it clearly can't stand up before my version, cocksucking motherfuckers, but then what can?) Anyway, what the hell ya gonna do.

Seems to me you have two (and a half) choices: 1) sniff rubber or glue, 2) spit in a shoe. Because if you can't be a sarcastic bastard at this point, well, then when can you? Or as I said to my beautiful, young, healthy wife Julie yesterday, I'm too young to feel this old!

Ain't that the truth.

I've got one more for you before we close with the Big Scene: I have a piece of advice for today's young people -- which aren't me, obviously -- always leave a little more in the tank than you think you'll need. And yes, I say that ruefully, though nowhere near as sorrowfully as the master. Which is just one reason it's a note I play only occasionally.

What finally got Jack was heart, though I guess the lungs must've been involved, too, because the death certificate listed "congestive heart failure" which as I understand it, involves the lungs filling with fluid when the heart shuts down. I remember walking into his hospital room right after he reached the end of the road. It wasn't pretty. His neck arched, nostrils pointed toward the ceiling, he looked like he'd fought like hell to keep living.

I carry that image with me as one way to go. A far more desirable alternative is to pass in my sleep. "He looked so peaceful," they'd say. With my luck I'll go out as Mr. In-Between. "He always said he wanted to die in his sleep," they'd say, "But (shudder) we didn't think he meant contorted in grief!"

In the end, I can't know for certain which way I'll go, but as sure as the hand on the back of my neck, I know that my dad died as he lived -- ruefully.